Clearly they were all waiting for him to continue. He perceived that he was the centre of observation, of interest--Ivan Féodor Vassilitch, sometime captain of a Cossack regiment that had made a reputation for hardihood and valour unique even amongst those northern soldiers whose nerves have the iron coldness of their ice-plains. He raised his glass, emptied it, and went on:-- "I tell you, my friends, that if circumstance compels you to such an act as I have spoken of, then any future terrors must be entirely the product of a superstitious imagination. No spirit will haunt you save that which you yourself conjure by bending the mind continually to that idea. No worm of remorse will tear your peace unless you believe liars who tell you it exists." [Illustration: "'YOU ARE NOT--YOU CANNOT BE--IN EARNEST?' SAID GABRIELLE."] That was all. None cared to argue the point. He was so quietly certain of his philosophy; so terribly sure. An hour later Vassilitch was addressed by Gabrielle. "I should like five minutes' talk with you," she said. He expressed both readiness and pleasure, and he spoke the truth. They passed out into the garden, after he had insisted that she should cover her shoulders with a wrap, for the dews of late autumn were condensing and falling imperceptibly on the still trees and flowers. "Will you sit down?" "I should prefer to walk slowly." He saw her bosom rise and fall in agitation, and he wondered what was coming. "Monsieur, I have a story to tell you. Of all the men I know, you can best appreciate it. It may be that you will care to help me--ah! do not be too ready; my request, if I prefer it, is altogether an unusual one, and such as only you might understand, and I. These Englishmen have cold hearts; passion with them is slow to catch fire and easy to be extinguished." "You speak of love, mademoiselle?" said Vassilitch, uneasily. "No." "Then it must be revenge. I am all attention." "You have heard of that society that call themselves 'The Scourge'? Of their political opinions I know nothing. Three years ago the police broke into a Moscow cellar and captured fifteen of this confraternity. Of the ultimate fate of those fifteen I also know nothing, but the end that came to one has been told me. He, at any rate, was a man, and a true Russian." Gabrielle caught her breath with a gasp, paused a moment, then continued:-- "He was deprived of civil rights, his property confiscated, and he himself sent into exile. He escaped from a convict station in the Trans-Baikal. He gained the woods, but it was winter, and you know what that means." "Ah!" muttered Vassilitch, twisting his black moustache and watching the pale face of his beautiful companion.